We the mortals touch the metals,the wind, the ocean shores, the stones,knowing they will go on, inert or burning,and I was discovering, naming all the these things:it was my destiny to love and say goodbye.

The days aren’t discarded or collected, they are beesthat burned with sweetness or maddenedthe sting: the struggle continues,the journeys go and come between honey and pain.No, the net of years doesn’t unweave: there is no...

Our love was bornoutside the walls,in the wind,in the night,in the earth,and that’s why the clay and the flower,the mud and the rootsknow your name.

Soy el desesperado, la palabra sin ecos, el que lo perdiò todo, y el que todo lo tuvo.

In one kiss, you’ll know all I haven’t said.

Nothing touches your skin of sweat(meltdown of oceanic kisses)when the purple lightwhispers to the moon in silent moonlit clarity

Give me Pablo Neruda, picnic beneath a full moon & iridescent stars, black olives, cherries, dark things, canoe on a river…that’s romance.

Neruda had his first dream, First meeting with the Moon and the Sun In sunny La Mancha, hiding in his heart,Where he learned how to sing like a nightingale.

Each in the most hidden sack keptthe lost jewels of memory,intense love, secret nights and permanent kisses,the fragment of public or private happiness.A few, the wolves, collected thighs,other men loved the dawn scratchingmountain ranges or...